


Lyra

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 10:29:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6851056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finrod makes friends first in Valinor before Sauron’s truly fallen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lyra

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I refuse to accept that Finrod died by wolf, so have some nonsensical “backstory.”
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He sears along the ice as a flame, hating the journey every time; it’s bitter and long and a lonely road, but he doesn’t dare bring an escort with him. He reaches the shores of Valinor in the form of a wolf and slips past the Elven hunters and the Valar’s watchful eyes, and soon he’s in the green countryside, hiding between hills.

He digs himself a new fortress in the earth, a small one, not deep enough to arouse Aulë’s interests and only temporary; the greater threat is Manwë’s air. He keeps far from where the elves live and only visits when he has to, to bring his reports from overseas. He meets Melkor in the form of an elf, pale skin and orange-red hair, without the blackened armour he boasts on foreign shores. Melkor sits with him, dark as a shadow, and asks cryptic things no listening ears would understand. 

And then Mairon retreats back to his hideaway and lies in waiting until he deems it safe to go again, back to his lord’s greater empire. 

He returns occasionally, only when he must, though it becomes more frequent over time.

* * *

Very rarely do beasts stray into his lair, and always he devours them, leaving no remains. To any eye but his own, the hollowed cavern would look no different than any Eldar camp. Still, he guards it viciously. The first time he returns to find a horse outside the opening, he’s ready with his fire.

He slips under the dark stone with no sound to his steps, no light to his body, though he can see someone’s lit the sconces inside. In that first, open chamber, he sees the tall silhouette of an elf. Mairon stills, hands lifting to destroy. He means to burn the intruder to ash. But first the elf turns to glance over his shoulder. His eyes dance in the pale light, widening, then crinkling as his pink lips twist into a smile. Something stills Mairon’s hand. 

The elf is lightly fingering the gilded door that leads deeper into Mairon’s keep, but he withdraws at the new company. When he turns properly, Mairon eyes all his white robes, silken and embroidered, dotted here and there with gems that glitter like the sea. His golden hair cascades elegantly down his supple frame, his pale skin washed richer in the firelight. He strikes Mairon, in that strange moment, as extraordinarily _beautiful_.

But he’s only an elf, and he can’t understand a Maia, can’t see what Mairon really is, can’t know how close he stands to his own demise. Mairon is acutely aware that he could still end this. It would be so very easy, out here beyond witness, to crush this fragile creature into dust. But the smile stays his hand. 

He always regrets that moment.

* * *

Findaráto returns again. On a hunting party, he explains, but he finds catching beasts hardly so interesting as this—meeting new people, seeing new sights, hearing new songs. He offers his name and accepts Mairon’s—Annatar, a lie—and smiles so sweetly as he walks about Mairon’s temporary home. He touches every surface, tactile and vivid, and listens when Mairon insists that he can never breathe a word of what he feels. This place is private, Mairon orders, and it must stay that way. Findaráto doesn’t argue. He makes the promise never to tell a soul of this, of Mairon, of _them_. Mairon quickly dispels that worry. He can see that this pretty creature has never told a lie in his life. 

Findaráto is sincere in everything, joyous in everything. Why Mairon allows him to return, at first, Mairon has no idea. Findaráto’s saccharine presence is a sharp contrast to Melkor’s sourness. But Melkor can’t come here, and Findaráto can. And does. He brings only himself, and once a harp, and he sits on one of the wooden chairs Mairon’s devised for just such company, and plays a lilting song. Mairon listens, tolerating, thinking, and not yet deciding. Then he brings Findaráto wine and watches the crimson liquid slip past his parting lips. There’s a hint of _art_ in everything he does, and Mairon, an artist in his own rite, can appreciate that. Findaráto only becomes sweeter with wine. He talks more and sings easier and will tell Mairon anything Mairon asks, sometimes helpful and sometimes not. When he asks questions and gets no answers in return, he accepts Mairon’s silence. He accepts everything. Sometimes his overflowing pleasantness makes Mairon’s stomach curdle. 

Yet Mairon allows him to stay for many hours, only shooing him out when it’s time to leave for a meeting with Melkor. Mairon passes Findaráto as a wolf once and isn’t surprised that Findaráto doesn’t shoot him.

* * *

Findaráto deviates from hunting parties, from family trips, or simply comes on his own, and finds Mairon there every time; Mairon’s crossing becomes so frequent that the ice he melts on his trips don’t have time between to rebuild. He isn’t proud of that.

But he lets Findaráto stay, sometimes for meals, sometimes for song, soon for sleep. The first time, Findaráto falls asleep on the new sofa Mairon’s built, and Mairon carries his feather-light form into the bedroom, laying his soft body down amongst the sheets. Even in unconsciousness, Findaráto’s lips don a pretty smile, and he twists happily in his nest. Mairon watches him for a time. 

Mairon allows Findaráto to sleep in his bed when he’s out reporting, though he tries not to leave Findaráto awake. He isn’t even entirely sure why—he knows Findaráto is no threat. Findaráto is too kind, too noble, to have a single deceptive bone in his body. Sometimes Mairon wonders how he manages to touch Findaráto at all without leaving corruptive burns. 

He doesn’t know whether he wants to tell Melkor of Findaráto or not, so he holds his tongue. It’s a small matter, he tells himself, not one that would concern the greatest of the Valar. 

When Findaráto is still awake and clearly going to stay and Mairon’s time is running out, he feeds Findaráto more wine and tells Findaráto long tales and watches Findaráto’s eyes grow heavy. Findaráto looks so peaceful when he sleeps. 

But he looks so peaceful always. Mairon returns from a visit to his master and climbs onto the thick bed he’s laid Findaráto across. He stretches out beside his sole companion and eyes the thinly-clad length of Findaráto’s body, Findaráto’s bright locks splayed all about the bed. He’s of a high bloodline, Mairon’s learned, a descendant of Finwë himself. Yet Findaráto wanders out to smile at strangers and sleep in their beds, so very trusting. His innocence is irksome. Mairon wonders vaguely if that’s the underlying allure: _the thought of taking it_. 

Findaráto sleeps on, and Mairon sleeps beside him.

* * *

It’s easy to transition into touching him. Mairon asks if he has anyone special in his life, and Findaráto admits that he has someone he’s interested in, but no one he’s really _with_ , and then he sets his glass on the table between them and asks if Mairon has anyone of his own. Mairon doesn’t mention his master. 

Mairon shifts slickly onto the couch and places an arm over the back, along Findaráto’s shoulders. He runs his fingers idly through Findaráto’s hair, tucks a few fallen strands behind his pointed ear, and then takes a fistful of it that makes Findaráto’s breath shorten. Their first kiss is a strange one—the hunger bursts in Mairon’s flesh like a bubble of molten earth, but he fights to restrain himself, to keep from searing Findaráto’s lips. He knows he could cause smoke between them easily. But he also can’t bring himself, not yet, to shatter all the naivety before him, and he kisses like any other of Findaráto’s kind. He allows Findaráto to keep it chaste, simple, until the urge to _be inside him_ is too great, and then Mairon licks at Findaráto’s plush mouth. Findaráto opens for him. He thrusts inside and savours the taste of wine. 

Soon, he’s flattening Findaráto into the cushions, one arm firmly around Findaráto’s trim waist and the other embedded in his hair. Findaráto holds lightly onto his broader shoulders. Mairon kisses him and kisses him but lets them fall asleep to only light stroking. He’s as his master now, luring great men into terrible traps, though he could have what he wants with force in a fraction of the time. This is more rewarding. He doesn’t snarl yet, like he wants to, that Findaráto’s become _his_.

* * *

After a difficult time with unruly Balrogs and traitorous spiders and an impatient master full of hate, Mairon stops at his hideaway to play with Findaráto’s hair. It soothes him like little else. The fair waves glimmer like pure light in his hands, and he can’t help but think how wondrous they’d look with his own _fire_ shining through them. He twists in a thick braid and lets it fall down to Findaráto’s tailbone. 

Then he peels the silver robes down Findaráto’s shoulders and rains kisses all over his creamy skin. His head rolls back against Mairon’s, his lips parting in a breathy moan. He makes such lovely noises. Mairon lets his hands stray all over Findaráto’s body, greedily slipping beneath his robes to trace his stomach, caress his thighs, pluck his pert nipples. He arches into every touch and gasps, trembling, and it makes Mairon _ravenous_ for the gorgeous prize that is his Findaráto’s body. The first time he clutches Findaráto’s shaft, he finds it already hard for him. 

He strokes Findaráto to a steady rhythm, sewing the illusion that this is for Findaráto’s pleasure. Findaráto comes undone so openly. Mairon holds him afterwards, playing more with his hair. He mewls and squirms and shifts around in Mairon’s arms. When their eyes reconnect, Mairon knows that he’s captured Findaráto completely.

* * *

He lets Findaráto braid his hair. He sits at the foot of his bed while Findaráto stands over him, happily overlaying one fiery bundle after the next. When the end is tied, Mairon can feel the press of Findaráto’s lips against the back of his head, Findaráto’s hands on his shoulders.

He waits for Findaráto to crawl around onto the bed, and then he surges forward, dragging Findaráto down and covering his mouth, tugging at his robes. Findaráto yields immediately, like he always does. Findaráto seems to have no guard to raise. He hasn’t learned to need one yet. Mairon’s careful never to trip that alarm. 

Mairon arranges Findaráto across the bed and strips everything away. He spreads Findaráto’s long legs and sits between them, taking a moment to eye everything, from the diamond clasped to Findaráto’s left ear to the subtle flush across his cheeks, to the dilation of his eyes, the part of his lips, the ways his chest rises and falls harder with each breath, anticipation clear across his skin. His rosy nipples pebble swiftly beneath Mairon’s thumbs. His stomach is soft but dusted with the faint lines of muscle, like most of him, straddling the edge of _strong_ and pretty. There’s a small mat of blond hair just above his cock that Mairon runs his fingers through. Then he tucks his hands between Findaráto’s legs and bids, “Fetch the oil.”

Findaráto tilts his head cutely, curiously, but he guesses right—reaches for the nightstand and plucks from it a single vial that he passes to his partner. Mairon uncaps it to spill enough into his palm. He’ll take Findaráto without preparation, he thinks, someday, hard and fast and brutal, but that day hasn’t come yet. He’s never seen Findaráto bleed, and this first time won’t be the start. 

He fingers Findaráto more gently than he means to, though his fingers tremble to go rougher—he wants to bury his entire hand inside and skewer Findaráto with it. He doesn’t. He strokes at Findaráto’s velvet walls and scissors them apart and watches Findaráto gasp and shudder and whine. Finally, Findaráto murmurs, “ _Please_ ,” and Mairon knows he’s won.

He’s done nothing wrong. Even if the Valar find him, they can’t damn him for this, for giving a pretty elf what it so clearly needs. Findaráto opens his arms, and Mairon falls into them. He slides his cock into Findaráto’s welcome body, slow and steady, until he’s seated to the brim. Then he watches Findaráto pant for air and kisses him again. 

He takes Findaráto in flowing thrusts and a myriad of touches, kisses, a few whispered words here and there. He restrains himself so much that it’s almost unbearable. This isn’t who he is anymore. But he enjoys himself immensely. It makes all the sickening sweetness of this foolish intruder worth every second. Findaráto’s body is just as stiflingly hot around him as he likes. 

His hunger’s growing, and he knows it. But this satiates it for a single moment. He spills himself in Findaráto’s tight rear the way an Eldar would, and he continues grinding in until Findaráto follows. Then they lie together in a sticky mess, and Findaráto hums a happy song.

* * *

Mairon takes to fucking Findaráto whenever he visits. It becomes an inevitability, and Findaráto no longer stays only long enough for tea. Mairon fucks him on the ground, over a desk, against the walls, in the makeshift forge and outside on the grass, bust mostly in bed. Findaráto is stronger than he seems and takes the pounding no matter where it comes, no matter how hard the surface he’s slammed into. But the bed leaves the least bruises, and Mairon won’t risk any word of this. Once, Findaráto burns himself whilst being fucked by the fire, and Mairon won’t let him leave until it’s healed. He smiles like this is sweet instead of grave. The Valar can’t know. Other elves can’t know. _Melkor can’t know_. Mairon is not over-protective; he’s possessive. He doesn’t want this ruined, doesn’t want to risk his own hide, and he doesn’t want to share the gorgeous being that’s fallen so deeply into his life. 

So Mairon fucks Findaráto harder to drive that home. 

Mairon pulls Findaráto’s hair during sex. He twists it around his wrist and uses it like another would guide a horse. He holds Findaráto down or in place, sometimes bends him into strange positions that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. Findaráto never complains. Mairon is careful to transition slowly into every one. Across the sea, he takes. Here, he _seduces_. 

He seduces Findaráto into sitting in his forge and kneeling between his legs, alternatively warming and sucking his cock. Physical release isn’t something a Maia needs, but it’s something Mairon enjoys. That’s something Melkor taught him. These sorts of games, Findaráto can’t get from other elves; they couldn’t even conceive of it. He keeps himself in Findaráto’s mouth or ass whenever he can and very rarely returns the favour. Still, Findaráto doesn’t complain.

Mairon comes on Findaráto’s pretty face and watches Findaráto lick most if it away and wear the rest like a badge of honour. Now Mairon wants to _ruin him_.

But it’s so easy that he doesn’t have to.

* * *

The first time Findaráto wakes up to find a manacle around his ankle, it takes him too long to notice. He shifts in bed and yawns, clutching the pillow beneath him, and turns to smile and rub his nose against Mairon’s. Mairon waits with a common frown until Findaráto finally stirs enough to sit up in bed. 

Then he notices, bare-legged as he is. He wears only a hunting tunic, trousers and boots long stripped away. A thin, golden ring circles him, more fashionable than functional—Mairon crafts with many different skills. A clinking chain like that of a necklace runs from the manacle to the wall. Findaráto looks at it and tilts his head. 

He lifts his foot and tugs it experimentally. Mairon knows now that this friendly minstrel is much, much stronger than he appears, and perhaps, with time, he could break it. But the chain withstands the first tug, and Findaráto lowers his foot again. 

Mairon watches him very carefully. He doesn’t look particularly upset. Instead, he settles down again and rolls to press a kiss to Mairon’s cheek. He strokes a red strand off of it and murmurs around a radiant grin, “I promise I was not going to leave.” His voice is melodic and reassuring. Even in this, he can’t seem to conceive of evil. 

Mairon doesn’t enlighten him. Mairon answers, “I know,” and reaches out to play with Findaráto’s hair again. “I just though I would like the way you look in it.” And he does. He’s sure his gaze must betray that, because Findaráto smiles all the brighter and lets out a twinkling laugh.

“You make the oddest trinkets, Annatar.”

He does, and he’ll make many more.

He pushes Findaráto back and fucks him again, enjoying every last rattle of the chain.

* * *

Mairon makes Findaráto all sorts of things. He molds golden collars, concocts a wealth of cuffs, devises jewel-embedded bindings, and Findaráto slips easily into every one. He isn’t the submissive pet that Mairon had thought to train, but simply so very _willing_ , and nothing new Mairon offers brings him any fear. He allows Mairon to tie him to every surface of the hidden fortress, and he still cries out in delight when Mairon enters him. Every time, Mairon thinks of not untying him after. 

Mairon thinks of keeping him, worse, of spiriting him away across the wicked passage to Melkor’s old keep, but it isn’t possible. As strong as Findaráto is, he’s still Eldar, and Mairon fears he would fade without Valinor’s light. Worse yet, the twisted minions Mairon holds back home would want to play with Findaráto, and they would surely break him, or maim him beyond repair. Mairon wants to keep him pretty. 

_Mairon wants to keep him_. Mairon gets closer and closer every time, binding more and more, Findaráto surrendering completely. Mairon ties his arms behind his back and bends his ankles to his wrists and fucks him on the floor in the first chamber. Mairon fits a muzzle on him like a dog and takes him in the grass outside, hands locked tight together. Mairon guides him about the house on a leash made of silver and suspends him on chains from the ceiling, fucks him in mid air, lets his own momentum drive him back onto Mairon’s throbbing cock. Mairon longs to fuck him as a wolf but isn’t yet ready to reveal that power. Mairon knows that if he ever did, Findaráto would let him. 

Most often, Mairon chains Findaráto to his bed. Findaráto always looks at him so kindly, wafting such _trust_. Mairon hates that it’s always proven true. 

Findaráto wears his bindings to sleep and seems to have no trouble with it. Mairon wonders if he’s ever known trouble in his life. Mairon traces idle patterns on his skin while he dreams and wonders if he’ll ever learn his lesson.

* * *

Mairon welds Findaráto’s wrists to the headboard, still clips the chain to his anklet and keeps his collar tight around his neck. He wears no other clothes. Mairon sits between his legs and teases him relentlessly, stroking his thighs and rear and balls but not his cock. Mairon kisses the sides of his face and pulls back when Findaráto tries to return the favour, and then Mairon hisses, “Beg me.”

“ _Please_ ,” Findaráto mewls. He’s probably never wanted for anything in his life, but the word seems natural on his lips. Mairon nips at the point of his ear and scrapes blunt nails down his front, and Findaráto gasps and pleads, “Take me, I need—Ahh—” So Mairon does.

Mairon slips into his waiting body and drives him into the mattress, makes it creak and groan—they’ve gone through two bed frames already. Mairon looms above his prize and purrs, “Such a good pet you are.” Findaráto smiles and chuckles, then breaks off in a heady cry as Mairon changes angles. The Eldar are _nothing_ , and Melkor wants them all destroyed, but Mairon breaks Findaráto down instead to merely lesser beings, still alive, just no longer antonymous: _his_. He bites along Findaráto’s jaw and growls, “My beautiful toy...”

Findaráto meets him for an eager kiss. In between, Mairon orders, “ _Beg harder._ ”

So Findaráto does. Ever Mairon’s brave warrior, Findaráto thrashes when told and meets Mairon’s thrusts, cries with want and desperation, says every word Mairon wants to hear. Sweet Findaráto, grandson of the great Finwë, begs one of his people’s greatest enemies to fill him with cock. Mairon finds a sick satisfaction in that.

Mairon finds growing satisfaction in flooding Findaráto’s body with his seed. Afterwards, when Findaráto is panting and sweat-slicked and covered in the pink marks of Mairon’s ardor, he sing-song murmurs, “If you untie me, I can hold you.”

So Mairon does.

And Findaráto curls happily around him to fall blissfully asleep.

* * *

Mairon is troubled by this, more so with each coupling. He wonders, sometimes, if Melkor can see the struggle in his being. Perhaps Melkor attributes it to the woes of the Eastern lands. Mairon’s learned deceit from his master and practices it in spades. 

Sometimes, he hates Findaráto more, for causing this distressing weakness. He never shows it. Findaráto is difficult to be mad at; he oozes friendship out of every pore and gives Mairon things like song, laughter, then a bracelet, then a few rings. His body is worth the highest price. His smiles are bizarrely intoxicating.

The first time he comes with his own troubles, it’s like waking up from a dream. Mairon knows Melkor’s ever working to sow discontent into these lands, but he didn’t think it could reach his ever-blooming flower. Findaráto’s smiles are weaker than usual, and his eyes are distant when Mairon takes him. Over wine and a harp and the fire, Mairon asks what distresses him. 

Findaráto doesn’t want to speak of it. He seems surprised, at first, perhaps that Mairon doesn’t know already, but Mairon only dares to sneak under the eyes of the Valar directly to meet with Melkor—he doesn’t keep up with Elven gossip. He doesn’t have to. Findaráto will usually tell him. Now Findaráto sighs that he wants to forget. He asks if Mairon will take those troubles away.

Mairon fixes his mouth open with a metal ring and a strap around his head, binds his cock too tight to come and hangs heavy clamps from his nipples. Mairon fits on him the tightest collar and strings his arms above his head, his legs spread across a bar. Then Mairon fucks him mercilessly, until tears are falling from his eyes and his body’s wracked with great sobs, not of pain but air-starved desperation. 

Mairon allows him to come, unties him, and sits with him in a heavy armchair. Mairon curls Findaráto into his lap and pets through Findaráto’s hair. By the time Findaráto wakes again, he’s as bright as ever.

* * *

But he comes again with troubles, more and more, and he’ll now speak little of Fëanáro’s sons, of his fierce sister, only sparingly of Ñolofinwë’s line. He asks why Mairon stays here, how Mairon can know so little of this world. 

He wants to take Mairon home with him. Mairon knows that. Findaráto takes to friendship too powerfully and, perhaps, has confused this for more. Mairon is firm that he won’t leave. This is as good a hiding place as any; no one else has found him, and, he often jokes, no one else would be so foolish as to wander unarmed into unknown halls. 

Quietly, Findaráto admits that he understands the want to hide. It surprise Mairon and tells him how deeply Melkor’s unrest has spread; Findaráto can and will withstand much before he flees. Findaráto could be a great king, Mairon thinks, if this land were not so small and so many of his relatives already set to rule. But he’s young still and isn’t jaded enough to lead. 

Mairon gives him a gilded harp, inlaid with jewels stolen from his people, though he doesn’t know it. He plucks the strings and sings beautifully, though he insists there are better minstrels among his people. Mairon has interest in none of them. When the song is finished, Findaráto thanks him. Findaráto says that he’s had a great deal to work out, and this private time between them to think, this new adventure of meeting Mairon, has helped him reach a decision. He hands the harp back before he leaves, but Mairon tells him to keep it.

* * *

“This will be the last time,” Findaráto says, with sorrow in his eyes. 

Stunned, Mairon’s mind races. This will be the time, he thinks, that he’ll encase Findaráto in a golden cage and keep him forever more. It wouldn’t be so difficult to parade an illusion into town, show others some dark mirage of Findaráto’s dying breath, torn apart by wolves, perhaps—a fitting end. 

But secretly, Mairon will keep this precious treasure here with him, unharmed, throughout all the ages. 

“I must leave soon,” Findaráto explains. He looks at his wine as he swirls it around his cup. 

Mairon asks, “Forever?” though he knows that even the ‘immortal’ Eldar can’t truly understand the term. Findaráto smiles sadly like he knows that. 

He answers quietly, “For a long time.”

There is nowhere in these lands that Findaráto can’t journey from, but still Mairon asks, “Where will you go?”

Then Findaráto ponders for a moment. Perhaps he doesn’t know, or perhaps he isn’t to say. Eventually, he admits, “I will sail east.”

Mairon is silent. He knew, he supposes, that this would come eventually—Melkor had meant to drive them there. And Melkor will have his way, Mairon is sure, one way or another. It still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He doesn’t want to think of this beautiful creature in that dark place, though he knows that Findaráto will survive it. How many others will, Mairon isn’t sure. But for them, Mairon doesn’t care.

That night, he makes gentle love to Findaráto the way he did when they first met. He makes sure Findaráto knows how wondrous he is, how deserving. Findaráto holds tightly to Mairon and whines that he will miss this, miss Mairon’s company. Mairon says he will make new friends, for better or for worse.

Mairon doesn’t say that they will likely meet again. And he bitterly regrets that the circumstances will be very different than this. Findaráto may know, then, all that he doesn’t know now. He’ll no longer have his innocence, but he’ll still be good, _pure_ , and he won’t come to Mairon with open arms.

And Mairon will ponder that illusion to keep him, or be forced to send him back here, to this sweeter place where Findaráto must belong.


End file.
